


Advent II

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little. Fun. Sweet. How to Manage Mycroft. Mary rocks. </p><p>Mycroft "hates Christmas." Yeah. Right. XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent II

“He hates Christmas,” Sherlock growled. “Attempting to celebrate will be nothing more than pointless torture, Lestrade.”

“Wrong,” John murmured under his breath. Mary sniggered, and they exchanged glances.

Sherlock glowered. “He’s my brother. I should know.”

“Mmmmm-hmmmmm.” Mary’s grin was wicked. “Never occurred to you that he loved Christmas—and dreads what you’ll do to it _this_ year?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s hardly my fault he’s given up on the entire tawdry holiday: the empty ritual, the family fantasy that never plays out, the gifts ill-chosen, the religion no more than a hollow shell. Of course he hates Christmas.”

“Wrong,” John murmured again, adding a new piece to the jigsaw puzzle he and Mary were working together during the evenings. He smirked.

“What would you know about it?” Sherlock growled. “You’re hardly one of the Christmas faithful.”

John shrugged. “No atheists in the foxhole,” he said. “And Christmas? A man like your brother’s going to be crazy for Christmas. Tradition, ceremony, family. Of course he likes Christmas.”

“He helps your mother cook at Christmas,” Mary said, and added a bit of sky to the puzzle. “I thought that jacket was welded on until I saw him without it, and his shirtsleeves rolled high last year. Mycroft Holmes stirring the batter for the plum pudding…”

“He hums Christmas carols,” John said.

“And every time he went past the tree he had to fuss with the tinsel,” Mary added.

“He loves Christmas,” they said together, eyes sparkling.

“So what do I do about it?” Lestrade asked, harried. “I’m no bloody good at all that bumf. What little we did when I was still married, the missus managed—and the less she saw of me while she did it, the better she liked it. I’ve no more idea how to put it all together than I know how to tap dance.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “You don’t. It’s a waste of time. You’ll only get it wrong no matter what you do. He can’t be pleased.”

Which, Lestrade had to admit, seemed likely enough. Even if he tried, Mycroft was private, and a perfectionist. Anything he attempted would be a disappointment. He had no idea how to make even his own “perfect Christmas,” much less Mycroft’s.

But, as he was preparing to leave, Mary came and whispered in his ear, and he smiled.

 

“You know,” he said over dinner, looking as forlorn as he could manage, “I really like Christmas.”

“It’s a vastly overrated holiday,” Mycroft said. “And Sherlock always finds something truly horrible to do to ruin it.”

“Still,” Lestrade said, and sighed heavily. “It would be nice.”

Mycroft glanced at him, and then back down at the steamed salmon he’d chosen in his ongoing attempt to remain svelte and elegant. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have a bit of a celebration,” he said, as though the words were dragged out of him. “If you’d really like it. What do you like about Christmas?”

Lestrade kept his eye on his own plate, shrugging. “Well, there’s the tree, I suppose—the house smells all piney-like, you know.”

“Trees are easily enough managed,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Yeah, but you’ve got to pick one, and get it home, and put it up. No idea where to start,” Lestrade said. “The missus saw to it, and she liked a fake tree.”

“It’s not that hard,” Mycroft muttered. “Easily enough managed with a bit of industry. What else?”

“Music? Yeah. I like the carols,” Lestrade said, and proceeded to rumble out a round of “Joy to the World” before slipping into “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog.”

Mycroft sniggered, but pointed out that even an idiot could come up with good choral music, thanks to online radio. “I think I can ensure we’ve got carols,” he said. “What else?”

“The feast on Christmas Day?”

“Turkey? Goose? Roast beef?”

Lestrade hummed, and thought about it. “Turkey’s good,” he said. “But a nice bit of beef’s a treat, too.”

“Both,” Mycroft said, firmly.

“Can’t eat all that ourselves.”

“Well, I suppose we could have Mummy and Father down for the day,” Mycroft allowed, cautiously. “And perhaps DS Donovan? I don’t think she has family, does she?”

“No.”

“And we might have Sherlock and John and Mary and the baby—provided Sherlock’s under guard the entire time.”

“So maybe we ask Anthea, too, just to keep him in line?”

“That would work,” Mycroft conceded. “What else?”

“Presents? Under the tree on Christmas Morning? Stockings?”

“Well of course. That goes without saying. Holly? Ivy? Mistletoe?”

“If you didn’t mind, it would be nice.”

“Pffft. If I can arrange the North Korean elections I think I can arrange to deck a hall as comparatively modest as the family estate.”

“And maybe a bit of greenery here at Pall Mall, too?”

“Oh, I don’t see why not, if it appeals to you.”

“But—Mike, I really don’t know how to go about it. I mean, tinsel and angels and presents and food. Shortbread cookies and kuchen and babas. A tree. Really, it’s not my division. I wouldn’t know where to start. And you don’t like Christmas.”

Mycroft rose and gathered up their plates, looking quite regal. “Don’t be ridiculous, Greg,” he said. “It’s only a minor inconvenience, and if it makes you happy—just leave it to me. I’ll handle everything.” And he swept off, and proceeded to clean the kitchen and wash the dishes.

And Lestrade, leaning in the doorway watching him, smiled and determined he’d have to email Mary and thank her, because the whole time he was cleaning, Mycroft hummed, “Veni, Veni, Emmanuel,” including the descant, and smiled and smiled and smiled.


End file.
